


Piu Mosso

by Tracy (sign_of_five)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, M/M, Sherlock AU, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Violin!Sherlock, musician au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:31:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sign_of_five/pseuds/Tracy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had gone to school together, studying music--Sherlock on the violin and John on trumpet. They graduated knowing little of one another and they thought that was that. Years down the road, their careers bring them together once again and they have much to learn from each other about music, friendship, and life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of me and @sign_of_five's project to do fandom works whenever we can. 
> 
> Things to keep in mind:  
> 1\. I am a student. This is a WIP. The frequency of my updates depends largely on my workload that may fluctuate at any time. Bear with me.  
> 2\. I am also American. These characters are not. I may get some things wrong. Please let me know if there's anything I can do to make it more realistic but please no hating.  
> 3\. These characters are pursuing a career in music. I am currently in my school's music program but am by no means pursuing a career or going to a music college. There will probably be discrepancies. Again, please let me know if there are things I can do better but no hating.  
> 4\. I do not own these characters, all credit to Conan Doyle and to Sherlock BBC for the incarnation that I am basing these characters off of.
> 
> Otherwise, I think that is all. Thank you very much for marching through with me!

   

* * *

  John first picked up a trumpet at age eleven. He hadn't really wanted to be in the music class to begin with. He'd been stuck in the class due to a scheduling error. He picked the instrument that looked easiest. Three valves? Couldn't be too hard to play. But, it took him a week to figure out how to even make a noise on the instrument. He walked around his house, mouthpiece in hand, blowing through the metal piece, trying desperately to make it sound like his teacher had. He'd nearly given up on the entire idea of music when he succeeded. An ugly sound came from the lone mouthpiece, but it was the sound it was supposed to make. Or something like it. 

     He played with a certain vigor that came from the pure joy that the music that erupted from the horn was something that he was making. He picked up lessons, joined jazz band, and practiced whenever he could. Sometimes his grades would suffer just because he found no time for writing an essay when his trumpet was just staring at him. He might've been hesitant at first, but his love for the instrument soon was very clear and his mother used anything remaining from her paycheck to pay for lessons, repairs, and music. As he advanced in his training, his love only grew.

* * *

    Sherlock was eight when his teacher encouraged him to try the violin. She had noticed his attention to detail and extreme focus and decided that this would be a good way to channel it. As soon as his bow was pulled, the sound filled the room. The instrument itself was older and was a school rental, but somehow it sounded much more refined than considered in the realm of possibility. He took the instrument home everyday and played swiftly and efficiently. By the end of the year, he could play several perfect sonatinas and all his scales. The music was precise and if a single mistake was made, he never made it again. He cared for the violin carefully, never leaving the bow strung too long. His teachers considered him a prodigy but at his first recital, Sherlock would stop everytime someone coughed or adjusted on his seat. He wanted all the attention.

     He played rigidly perfect and with the smoothest of movements. When put in an ensemble to play with, all of the students complained to the conductor that Sherlock was criticizing them and calling them "tone-deaf terrors". Each private teacher he had moved him along to another swiftly because he often tried to prove that he was a better musician than the instructor. Often times, he actually was. With each advancement, he became more immersed in each grace note, crescendo, and sixteenth note run.

* * *

     At RAM, John delved into jazz. The syncopation, the dancing notes, they spoke to him and ever since his first exposure to Duke Ellington, he'd been in love. The way the notes popped on his trumpet made him smile and the way the audience could not keep from tapping their toes was magical. Sherlock, however, wanted to become a virtuoso. He studied the finer points of every type of technique and style and replicated them perfectly. He played alone, almost never with ensembles, unless they were backing his solo. He played concertos, Rachmaninoff, and Paganini religiously. He was dedicated to being the top of his game.

     Sherlock was still a bundle of limbs at the time. But he was always composed and too cool to be involved with any of the students. He had no friends. If anything, his violin was his only friend. It helped him think. It was a beautiful day and the semester concerts were to begin today. First-years were all grouped together and Sherlock was forced to listen to several pieces that were not nearly fine-tuned enough. A small percussion ensemble almost brought him to tears for they were all slightly off tempo, but just off tempo enough for it to be maddening. Many of the performances were just tolerable. But he had to admit there were a few satisfactory acts. Like the flautist's Debussy solo. Or the jazz trumpeteer who had phenomenal technique. Sherlock had always despised jazz because it seemed too loose, too free. But this trumpet was spot-on and everything seemed just calculated enough but still had that jazzy feel.

      Sherlock was up next. He strung his bow  _swish swish_ and played three swift scales--major, minor, then chromatic. He played the opening note of the Paganini he had selected and then rolled his neck. He stepped onto stage. Everything went as planned, the sostenutos perfect and the staccatos even. The crescendos built and the runs were flawless. There wasn't a single hitch. As the last note rung into the audience, he waited for the applause. The ensuing clapping was less enthusiastic than Sherlock would've hoped. He bowed tersely and quickly disassembled off stage. He didn't let the disappointment of the lackluster applause get to him. It was just a bunch of first-year students, some of whom wouldn't know talent if it bit them on the nose. He was the last performance of the day and soon everyone was leaving the auditorium.

      He packed his instrument away and was heading along with the crowd when someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was a stockier clarinet player who had horrendously butchered several etudes that day. He looked like a brute and Sherlock looked at his hands, surprised that his meat-hands could even hold a clarinet. He quickly looked over him, realizing that his father was a wealthy music manager who had gotten him accepted to RAM and that he had been a footballer before he injured his knee and had fallen back on the only thing he was slightly good at. He smirked at Sherlock analyzing him.

      "Hey, nice work showing off to the entire year. Your reputation precedes you. You're Holmes, right? The prick who thinks he's better than everyone and plays with a stick up his arse." He laughed, believing himself to be hilarious.

      "That may be so, but at least I didn't earn a failing mark for being unable to correctly remember a F sharp scale was the enharmonic of G flat." Sherlock wouldn't tell him, but he had seen the score sheets in a class they'd taken together (unfortunately) at the beginning of the year. Meat-Hands opened his mouth. His cheeks flushed pink. He was almost shaking with embarassment. Quickly, the embarassment shifted to anger.

      "You git! How the fuck do you know that? You better not have told--" Sherlock shrugged in response before he could finish the sentence.

     "Maybe I told that girl you've been ogling at for the past semester." Meat-Hands again began to shake and nearly jumped Sherlock. Instead he punched Sherlock in the face. Or rather attempted to. Sherlock stepped backwards much too quickly for the blow to land. Meat-Hands came at him again and again, managing a scrape on his shoulder and pushing Sherlock into a table. 

     A hubbub erupted among the crowd still remaining. Many were too afraid to intervere. Meat-Hands was a large guy who could probably injure someone pretty badly. Sherlock just kept retreating but he could see the wall behind him, disabling him from moving back further.

     Suddenly, a body was between Sherlock and Meat-Hands. He was yelling at the Meat-Hands, "Rob! Rob, stop this! This is juvenille!" He began another sentence but then Rob's fist connected with his face. Sherlock was surprised to see the face of the one talented trumpeteer from earlier today turn in pain. The impact was deafening in a near silent auditorium and there was a definitive crack of his nose breaking. The trumpeteer gasped in a short bout of pain and Meat-Hands stopped immediately.

     "Jesus, John. Shit, I--shit." Rob still had angry fervor in his eyes but was too preoccupied at having hit the trumpeteer to pursue Sherlock any further.

     "It's fine. It's fine. I just--shit, I'm bleeding." The trumpeteer--John--was holding his now bleeding nose. He tilted his head upwards and started to walk away. Rob stared at Sherlock intently for a while before following John, apologizing profusely. It was clear that Rob and John's friendship was dominated by the trumpeter, Meat-Hands looking for approval. Sherlock stood for a moment. A complete stranger had probably prevented  _Sherlock_ 's nose from being broken. He shook off the daze and left for his next class.

* * *

     Sherlock only ever saw the trumpeteer once again. At graduation, Sherlock saw John throwing up his cap and hugging a woman who looked similar in feature. His sister no doubt. Sherlock never forgot his good deed but was never grateful enough to engage in conversation. And now he probably never would. Their paths were split for the forseeable future and Sherlock's career would surely never intersect with a jazz trumpeteer, no matter how technically talented he was. In a moment of what could only be attributed to sentiment, Sherlock secretly hoped for a chance to see John again for a fleeting second. He again shook off the daze and left the celebrations, alone.


	2. Study of Pink Panther

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, somehow I managed to update pretty quickly. Also, it was frustrating while I was writing when half of my draft disappeared for no reason...yay, fun! So, this chapter was very information-heavy but it'll pay off, I promise. Thanks!

* * *

 

     John jiggled the handle to his door until it gave way and he entered his flat. Sure, it was slightly decrepit and creaked at the most unfortunate of times...but it was home. He threw his jacket onto a chair and then plopped down on the couch. He sat, not knowing what to do. It was more and more often now that John experienced existential crises. Nearing his forties, living alone, on a musician's paycheck. His second job was giving private lessons to teenagers, who really couldn't care less. The silence rung around him like the reverberations of a harp. He stood and popped a Miles Davis CD into his aging stereo. No, he didn't live alone. He lived with Miles, Louis Armstrong, and Clark Terry. The silence was filled immediately.   
  
     He got up and shuffled into the kitchen, rummaging around the pantry. He emerged victorious with a packet of ramen. He put the water to boil and opened the package, spilling bits of noodle on the floor. Ramen had been his staple food during his uni days. Every meal was ramen because it was all he could get his hands on. Actually, it had been a consistent meal after uni as well. Breaking into the business was hard work. Most people didn't want him, didn't care enough for jazz. He repeatedly got the comment, "This isn't the 1940s and we're not in America." Eventually he settled for being part of some city symphonies, doing jazz here and there when he could. John was good in an ensemble, he knew how to blend in an not be seen, be very plain. However, there had been a fork in the road about five years back when he gave himself an ultimatum. He had recently auditioned to back for Chris Botti for a bit of his tour and John decided that if he didn't get it, he'd enlist and maybe join the Corps of Army Music. The music in the symphonies was good and it still filled his soul with joy as it did when he was a child, he wished he could accomplish more and affect more people with this beautiful music that had affected himself so much. It was an assignment, playing generic orchestral suites, not a passion.  But, somehow--maybe it was a godsend--he did end up touring with Botti and it was fantastic. The locations were beautiful and the other backers were now his great mates. He knew almost nothing of Botti himself as the star of the show never fraternized with his support, which seemed snooty to John but to each his own, right?   
  
     It had been a good time in his life, but, of course, it had to end. Off the tour's high, he had played a few solo concerts here and there but it hadn't led to much. Maybe an obscure music critic somewhere out there knew the name John Watson. But most people didn't. And that was okay with him. The water was now boiling and John poured the steaming liquid into the bowl and waited three minutes exactly for the noodles to cook. The smell wafted throughout the room and reminded him again of RAM. As he offhandedly rubbed his face, he noticed the bump on his nose from when he had broken it. John chuckled exasperatedly at the thought of Rob, the rambunctious student who didn't really belong there. He'd dropped out second year and moved to America. They weren't in touch. All John clearly recalled was that Rob never stopped trying to make it up to John, blaming the whole calamity on the gangly kid Rob had been pushing around. John sighed, suddenly filled with a "missed opportunity"esque emotion. Top of his section for most of his years at RAM and this is the life he'd chosen. He couldn't deny that the music made him happy...but he'd envisioned something more glamorous than ramen alone in an old flat.   
  
     He took the bowl with him to the couch and turned on the telly to some news show and made sure the volume was low. He carefully sipped at the soup and twirled the noodles around a fork. Immediately, the heat enveloped him amidst the cold February air. He ate and watched the tales of robberies and dogs trapped in manholes. The sound of the reporters mixed with his Davis CD and created something perhaps odd to others but it sounded like home to John.   
  
     And then he realized there was another track behind the TV and the jazz. Something distinctive--ah, yes. John reached into his jacket pocket and the theme from Pink Panther filled the room. A free ringtone that had come with his phone    
  
     "Hello?"  
  
     "John! It's Hudson. I say, it's been a while. How are you?"  
  
     "Hudson! Ah, I'm fine. Just cruising along. You?" Mrs. Hudson had been been one if his professors at RAM and now was helping to manage the London Symphonic Orchestra.   
      
     "Oh, splendid. I did have a purpose in calling of course. I was wondering if you have any plans for March?"  
  
     "I don't have any plans anytime as of now." John laughed with a derisive undertone.  
  
     "Great! Because, John, I think you could really pull something amazing off at our Pops Concert..."

* * *

     Molly had begged Sherlock for weeks to come out and meet the students graduating RAM this year. He'd been vehemently unenthusiastic until Molly had promised to take him to the science lab on campus and let him tinker around. An opportunity for data-gathering. He donned his favorite scarf and pulled on a coat with a flourish. As he exited his flat, the London wind gusted around him and struggled to move aerodynamically around Sherlock. He hailed a cab.

    As he pulled himself through the door, he looked over the cabbie. It was an elderly man who had a family and--from the lilt of his shoulders--was hiding a secret...a secret he wouldn't tell anyone, not even his family. Probably some terminal disease. He considered himself brilliant although obviously he'd done nothing miraculous enough to be considered a genius. "The Barbican," Sherlock demanded coolly.

     Through the streets of the city, Sherlock played a game. He tried to extract as much information as possible from people just walking down the street. It wasn't difficult to analyze where they were going and what they were holding and the way they walked and the tilt of their head simultaneously. At least, it wasn't difficult for Sherlock. Sherlock knew London more than he knew his neighbors. But, he probably knew the solar system better than he knew his neighbors. No, sometimes he felt as if he knew London more than he knew himself. He was so attuned to the beat of the city that he would be out of sync anywhere else. He reached for his phone to check the time. Technically, Molly's rehearsal would end at two, but, knowing Molly, she'd probably lose her music somewhere and have to hunt them down around the stage. She wouldn't emerge by 2:20 at the earliest.

     As the cab neared the Theatre, Sherlock pulled his collar up and took a hat--an old floppy, frisbee-like thing he'd found in an old dressing room--and pulled it over his head. It wasn't extremely likely, but sometimes people who recognized his work would ask him inane questions or something of the sort. Especially with his last concert not two weeks ago. Sure, the music critics would probably know the name Sherlock Holmes, but he was betting most students didn't...maybe unless they were avid violinists. Sherlock's career had taken off after RAM. He'd used every utility at hand to try and further himself, get himself seen. His first concert had been only three years after uni. Afterward, he never went on a decline, picking up several more concerts almost immediately. He'd even been a soloist on some DECCA orchestra recordings. Even currently, he had three messages on his voicemail asking him to feature at a new concert. He handed the cabbie three tenners and stood on the pavement as the cab drove away. He looked at his watch: thirty seconds after 2:20.

      Almost as if on cue, Molly burst out of the doors, pulling one arm through the sleeve of her coat and the other arm carrying a bundle of papers. The music was dangerously close to flying away but Sherlock reached to take them from her before they could be lost in the sky.

     "Oh...thanks!" Molly smiled impily. "So, tea first?" She started walking towards a little cafe that was two blocks away. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He wasn't very hungry--he was never very hungry--but he followed Molly anyway. She was walking with a certain leap in her step that only happened when her endorphins were slightly higher than average. So, she had received a compliment from the conductor today. As second chair flute for the LSO, it was surprising that Molly still had so much self-doubt. It had always been there, though, even when she and Sherlock had gone to RAM with one another. They didn't become friendly until they met in an elective Forenics class and Molly was always willing to help Sherlock with his experiments. She'd try to make him eat dinner and Sherlock would pull out some chips he had in his pocket...it was a working relationship. They were more amiable now but Sherlock still had to be swayed in order to engage in social events.

     A bell rang as they entered the cafe. "Molly! Lovely to see you again!" the shopkeeper smiled warmly at Molly but her eyes skimmed over Sherlock as if he wasn't there. Like it was easy to ignore a six-foot-tall man clad almost entirely in black. 

     Molly had a kettle of tea brought to the table they were now seated at and asked if they had any croissants. "Anything for you, Molly!" Sherlock opened up his coat as the heating made the room warm and Molly took off her scarf. She poured a cup for Sherlock and one for herself. She warmed her hands from the steam of the cup and then took a sip, poured some milk in, and took another sip. Sherlock let the tea sit on the table until Molly stared at him with what passed for a stern look on her face. The tea was hot and brewed just right. Sherlock could see why Molly liked this place.

     "So..." Molly began, judging Sherlock's face to see if he'd stop her. "Are you gonna be busy in March?"

     Sherlock could smell something fishy unfolding before him. "No. Not currently," he drawled.

     "Well, I only ask because...well. We're having a Pops concer then and Hudson--you know Hudson? The manager?--asked if we knew any solo violinists to feature. And I said I did and I'd ask and I suppose that means I have ulterior motives in asking you to tea and to go visit RAM but even if you say no we'll go do all of those things so what do you say?" Molly's words started slurring into one another and were spoken at an alarming rate. Sherlock thought about a Pops concert. He often found popular music too light and surface-y for his liking, he didn't get to show off his impeccable technique. 

     "As a matter of fact, I have three other offers on my machine right now. I could accept either one of those." Molly's face immediately fell, even if she had tried to conceal it. The longer he looked at Molly, the more he came to see that a Pops concert with the London Symphony Orchestra couldn't be that bad. In fact, he might've felt the slightest bit guilty about baiting Molly like that.

     "But...I guess I could go with LSO instead." Molly looked near ready to hug Sherlock but instead knocked over her cup of tea. She mopped it up with some nearby napkins as she exclaimed.

     "Oh, thank you, Sherlock! I know it'll be fantastic. No,  _you_ 'll be fantastic! I can't wait! It'll be just like college all over again!" She downed the rest of her tea as Sherlock took a last sip.

     "Molly," Sherlock's tone was suddenly stern. Molly looked nervous, afraid Sherlock would take back his words because she'd been too enthusiastic. "I expect at least an hour at the science labs now."


	3. The Blind Kuhlau

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...it's been a while. I've been busy. It's cool, right? Fun Fact: Star Trek is mentioned not only because Benedict happens to be in the upcoming sequel, but because I also happen to be playing it for a pops concert at my school. Now you know. The exciting repertoire of a high school band student. I may not update until after finals however, because I should probably put my energy into this AP test at the end of term. Also, the chapter title is a reference to a composer who half-blinded himself by poking his eye with a walking stick. I just really wanted the chapter titles to be clever plays on the episode titles, okay?

     Sherlock arrived precisely two minutes before rehearsal was set to begin. He had picked up Molly on the way because, as he had expected, she hadn't left when he dropped by. As Molly ran off to take her seat with the orchestra, Sherlock went to seek out a practice room. His coat swished around him as he turned the sharp corners but he made sure his violin case was nowhere near the walls. They'd be rehearsing the first chunk of the repertoire today, which included a jazz crowd-pleaser, Sherlock's feature, and a movie score. He wouldn't be needed until the jazz number was finished so he took some time for himself. He washed his hands and then took out his violin, strung his bow, and tuned. Sherlock had the gift of perfect pitch, knowing exactly where the note should be and being able to detect even ten cents sharp or flat. It also happened to make ensemble tuning difficult because--although the composer would insist on taking the pitch of the group--why adjust to a pitch that is wrong if he  _knew_ it was wrong? It was counterintuitive. 

     He sat on one of the chairs and shook out his shoulders slowly. A breath. He lifted his eyebrows as he played a warm-up etude in d-flat major, his favorite key. His arm moved almost fluidly, like maybe God or whoever may be above had somehow attached a thread to his wrist as it flicked this way and that, filling the room with the purest sound possible. He suspended the last note before exhaling and bringing his bow down. He took a glance at the clock across the room and gathered his things. For now, he'd only need Tarantelle. It was Wieniawski's Scherzo and if it had been up to him, Sherlock would never have chosen it...simply because every violinist is familiar with it. But it was a Pops concert. And everyone seemed to appreciate the presto runs. Sherlock made his way through the halls once again and entered through the stage door just as the previous piece came to a fermata. The orchestra released together, but the sound waves filled the theatre, overlapping one another. Only as they began to fade away did all the musicians relax. Many of the symphony member applauded the trumpeteer behind the conductor. The man turned back slightly, beaming, and then made to gather his music. There was something nagging at Sherlock's mind, something about this, something about him. But the curtain half obscured him and the trumpeteer had already started to move backstage, into the shadows. It had probably just been a face he'd seen before. Sherlock didn't often forget a face, even if it was just one he'd seen walking down the street. It was probably nothing.

     "Ah, there he is!" The conductor had noticed Sherlock standing near the edge of the stage and motioned him over. "The famed Mr. Holmes. We're excited for your Scherzo." The conductor seemed extremely focused and smirked--almost as if he expected Sherlock to be nervous. He had a certain lift to his shoulders that signified his expectations for Sherlock...and that was something Sherlock could respect in a man. He struggled to remember the conductor's name...it was Jeremy? James? Something.

    Sherlock strode to center stage and shook the conductor's hand. He smiled because he knew he should. He scanned the ensemble briefly. Some faces he recognized. Most he didn't. Sherlock didn't really linger among ensembles. He noticed, however, that the trumpeteer from before was settling into a seat with the trumpet section. It was gracious for a featured soloist to enter the orchestra. It was even unusual--well, maybe just unusual for Sherlock as he never had, unless it was required. Again, the trumpeteer triggered some connection in Sherlock's mind but it as if the realization was just out of reach. Sherlock buried the notion and turned toward the currently empty audience. The conductor nodded at him and Sherlock focused. A breath. The tarantelle began fast and stayed that way. As the rhythm of the eighth and sixteenths became natural he imagined every note was an exam. They would either be a passing mark or a failing mark. Sherlock didn't get failing marks. The music was all around, melody floating above the accompaniment of the lower voices. 

     And just as it seemed Sherlock had just begun, the piece ended with a flourish. Suddenly, Sherlock was breathing quickly as the resonance came to his ears in a steady tide. His heartbeat eventually echoed louder than the last note and the orchestra behind him applauded. He may have even heard a whistle. Sherlock was glad. He was even proud that they appreciated such music. The conductor clapped politely and lifted his eyebrows at Sherlock as he made his way back. "That was impressive technique, Holmes." Sherlock nodded and gave a slight twitch of a smile and headed, once again, backstage.

    He went first to the practice room to put his violin back in his case and then decided--God knows why--to take a listen to the last song for the day. He entered near the outskirts of stage right and stood behind the curtain. The music was swelling, the forte-pianos very  _Hollywood-_ like. Sherlock recognized it. A conglomeration of themes from a show he'd watched as a child...Star Trek. The notes portrayed a certain urgency and mystery. It was good. It would please the masses. As the song neared its triumphant conclusion, Sherlock's eyes again found the trumpeteer, playing the quick notes fervently. And then, like a slap in the face, Sherlock remembered. Actually, it was like a punch to the face--a punch that had landed on this man rather than Sherlock. John. Sherlock remembered John's skill and couldn't help but supress a small grin. So, he had made it out into the big leagues as well. At least, that's what he could assume. This was LSO after all, it wasn't just a free-for-all-amateurs.

     Suddenly, Sherlock felt an awkwardness creeping up on him. Was this how people felt when they see old classmates? It hadn't happened very often for Sherlock. Out of nowhere, Sherlock was embarassed. John had seen him last when Sherlock was almost beaten to a pulp. In fact, John had  _protected_ him. It was all very disconcerting. As this whirlwind of thoughts enveloped Sherlock, the theme had ended and all the musicians were packing up. Sherlock was Molly's ride home, so he waited for her and watched as she thanked the conductor.

    "Thank you, Mr. Moriarty. Have a nice day!" she smiled and loped over to Sherlock. "Shall we?" They walked in synchronization and made small talk. There were several exits but Molly followed the crowd toward an outdoor staircase. It was drizzling and Sherlock stopped to reach for an umbrella as Molly continued on.

     To be quite honest, Sherlock almost  _saw_  Molly fall before she actually did. She slipped on one of the first wet stairs and lost her footing, reaching out and trying to stop herself from tumbling entirely down the flight. She put her arms in front of her as gravity acted upon her and she managed to come to a stop after skidding down six stairs. Sherlock stared momentarily before hurrying to help her. She looked sincerely stunned and looked at Sherlock, wide-eyed, for a long time. She hissed as pain creeped up her arm and she looked down at her wrist, the cause of her discomfort. "Dammit. I--I think I did something." Sherlock reached to help her up when another arm also appeared to help Molly. Sherlock glanced up. It was him. John.

     "Are you alright? That was quite a fall." John still had the same compassionate demeanor he'd had at uni.

     "I think I did something to my wrist," Molly replied as John made a face of concern.

     "We should get that checked out. Come on then. I have a car." Sherlock almost objected but he was near speechless as the embarassment that had hit him before rematerialized. Sherlock and John both half carried Molly toward the garage where John motioned to a ratty old compact car. Sherlock had to admit he was surprised. And then he noticed John's worn-out jumper and the tired look in his eyes. Maybe Sherlock had assumed too much of John's career.

     They drove in near silence to an Urgent Care. Molly first tried to diffuse the awkwardness with small talk, before giving up as well.

* * *

     Molly had broken her wrist. She was expected to be able to play by concert date but couldn't rehearse for the time being. As she'd been x-rayed, John and Sherlock sat uncomfortably in a waiting room. Sherlock couldn't tell if John recognized him, the man who had inadvertently cause John's broken nose. Sherlock could see a slight bump on the bridge of John's nose.

     Molly's wrist was casted as quickly as possible and John graciously offered to drive her back to her flat as well.

    "No, it's alright. I'll grab a cab with Sherlock." As Molly said Sherlock's name, John's face shifted. It was clear on John's face that he now remembered the entire exchange from the end of their first year.

    John was quickly neutral. He smiled at Molly and waved. "Well, see you then." He turned and walked in the opposite direction.

   Sherlock was acutely aware that he had no idea what he was feeling. He turned to Molly. "Come on, then."


	4. The Great Grandioso

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, finals are just ending. Hopefully I'll have more time to update in the future. Thanks for reading!

     

* * *

_One week remaining until Pops Concert._

John arrived at the theater exactly on time. He'd made a habit of being punctual because...well, he'd like to say that it was just because he had good character but it was really because he didn't have much to do otherwise. As he sat warming up, he was actually pretty nervous. He felt as if he should've been practicing more, until his cheeks were incredibly sore and he couldn't even feel his fingers anymore. It wasn't as if he hadn't practiced, he had. All the time. He rehearsed everyday for several hours, sometimes even forgot to eat meals and missed appointments. However, he couldn't help but feel as if everyone else around him was working so much harder than he. 

     No, that wasn't it. John felt inferior because everyone else was seasoned with LSO and real concerts and a steady musical career. John's career came and went as it pleased. Hell, he still only had one tuxedo. One tuxedo he'd used at every ocassion requiring one for the last five years. The more he thought about it, the more frustrated he became. He'd been down on his luck with getting jobs literally from the get go. He could tell that he was pretty good, and he loved what he did, but then how come he was the one left with the short stick, still stuck grappling for jobs? 

     He finished up his last scale just as someone came over to tell him that they were beginning rehearsal. He exited the practice room and headed out to stage with his trumpet in hand. His feature was first and he was excited, although the nerves were definitely still there. Some members of the orchestra applauded as he came on stage. He smiled but hurried to the front as quickly as possible. Moriarty, the conductor, looked at him and nodded. John had the first three measures and then the ensemble would join in. John took a breath and...played. A slick jazz run echoed into the theater and consecutive measures builty upon it. John could feel the music boil his blood and make him feel as he never had before. He had several sections all by himself, but he wasn't phased. This was his element and he played to fill the room even momentarily without accompaniment. And it felt like it had been only a few moments from the cappo when the song came to a ringing end. John was out of breath and couldn't help but smile as he headed toward the ensemble and Moriarty politely applauded him. "Very good, Watson."

     He surreptitiously snuck into the trumpet section as the next feature came forward. And it was  _him_. John had recognized him the day that flutist had broken her wrist. He was the violinist who John had broken his nose for in earlier days. He strode to the front of the stage confidently--although if John was quite honest, it was really very pompous--and looked at Moriarty silently. And then, Sherlock began to play. The piece wasn't something that John recognized immediately, but it was full of flair and fast sixteenth notes. As John watched Sherlock play, something felt off to him. And he wasn't sure what it was. The music was, no doubt, fantastic and there wasn't a single note or dynamic out of place. The whole performance felt perfect...if not, too perfect. It was only after the piece had ended that John realized what it had been. Sherlock hadn't moved an inch since he began to play. He wasn't just still, he was...stoic. It was honestly unnerving to John.

     "Fancy technique, Holmes. There's something missing, though. Everything you just played felt too--how do I say this?--calculated. You need to feel music, it doesn't just plop out of the sky. You can ask one of the other musicians here for assistance...actually, ask Watson here. He knows what he's doing," Moriarty couldn't have been more blunt. John didn't know how to feel. Gracious that Moriarty respected him so much, embarassed that everyone was looking at him, downright anxious as Sherlock's face immediately fell from pleased to infuriated. And suddenly, his face was again neutral, although John could see a fire burning behind his eyes that made him very uncomfortable.

     "Thank you for your advice, Moriarty." He turned away and unraveled his sleeves as he walked away.

* * *

    "I would like to ask for your help with 'feeling the music'." John turned around, completely surprised. It was Sherlock. John had somehow managed to avoid him until now.

    "I thought you'd be angry."

    "Of course not. I'm a professional. I can learn anything that I must for my performances," Sherlock said it, his voice oozing with sincerity but his eyes and body still stiff with discomfort.

    "Um, okay. Do you want to work maybe tomorrow?" John happened to be speaking much faster than he intended.

    "Absolutely. I expect an hour will do the trick. Have a nice day." And Sherlock just disappeared around a corner with a flourish.

* * *

    John again arrived on time. Sherlock was already there. They settled into a practice room as Sherlock took out his violin.

   "Okay, um, I guess you should first just look at your music. Try and figure out what it's saying and analyze everything about it. The style, the title, the basics. And that is, kinda, I guess, the feeling you're trying to portray" Sherlock didn't respond, just took out his music. "Playing is kinda like acting. You're trying to tell a story that might not be yours to an audience. Now try playing."

    Sherlock again didn't say anything but began to play. It felt to John as if nothing had changed. He didn't know whether he was allowed to stop Sherlock. He waved in front of him for a while before he looked up.

    "Um, I still don't think that you're playing with enough emotion. 'Feeling the music' can't be faked. Your emotions literally can be heard." And it sort of continued this way until the hour was nearly over. John would try to give sage advice and then Sherlock would play and John would still feel like something was off.

    Only ten minutes remained when John said, "I really don't know what else to tell you. You just need to connect with the music." Sherlock's face turned red, suddenly.

    "Thank you, Mr. Watson, for your help. I bet you think you're just the best because you can 'feel the music'. This has been quite the session but I guess lessons from an amateur couldn't really be of assistance to me." Sherlock seemed to explode with all these thoughts that had crowded his mind for the past hour.

    John was shocked. He sat there for a moment before feeling his palms go hot. The word "amateur" rang in his ears again and again. "Really? You think that I'm the amateur here? Let's see then, you arse. The conductor liked my music better. You know why? Because you're not even human when you play. You're a robot, you're a machine. Your music isn't even real music because music is supposed to reveal something about your soul but instead you reveal your technique. Maybe it's because you don't have a soul, I wouldn't know, Mr. Holmes. So, I wish you all the best in your career but you can kindly fuck off if you think that your success measures how much 'better' you are than me."

    And John left the room, exited the building, and jumped into a cab.

* * *

     _Concert night_.

    Sherlock was thinking. He couldn't stop thinking. This wouldn't be so unusual if the thoughts didn't make him feel increasingly nervous. Usually, thoughts and facts made him feel confident. Tonight they made him anxious. He could recreate the scene of John telling him that he wasn't even a real human in his mind. Insults shouldn't have made him this upset. But there was no denying that Sherlock was upset.

    He was dressed in his finest tuxedo and had the sleeves rolled up as far as they would go. The concert was just beginning and he was backstage. He had strung and restrung his bow, only using as much rosin as he knew was good for the bow and jittered around. It concerned him. He was  _never_ nervous before a performance. Suddenly, he could hear the music beginning, led by John's trumpet. The concert had begun. And as Sherlock listened, he couldn't help but lose himself in John's music. And, slowly, Sherlock  _felt_. He could feel the mystery and disquiet of the music that was so masterful. He almost hit himself in the head.  _It's_ Pink Panther _for God's sakes._ But there was still something skillful about John's rendition of the hackneyed theme. Sherlock even found himself tapping his toes and reminiscing with the music.

    He felt so...not himself.

    Applause erupted, and Sherlock was again reminded that he was at a concert and that this was his time coming up soon. John exited stage left and Sherlock entered stage right. Applause again swelled as Sherlock stepped to the front. He took a big breath. He raised his violin to his neck and positioned the bow. In his peripheral vision, he could see Moriarty raise his baton. And, he played.

    In the whirlwind of notes, Sherlock searched to feel. He wanted to become the music and be able to convey something that so desperately needed to be conveyed through the music. As he hit measure 103, something shifted. He was so caught up in the rush of emotions: urgency, passion, inevitability. He felt all these things at once and nearly felt like he was going to pass out on stage. He searched deeper trying to really move with the music and his heart felt as if it were to burst and his head was simiply a mess of thoughts and feelings when--the song ended. The crowd roared with appreciation although Sherlock was only vaguely aware. There was a strange buzz in his ear and a rush of dopamine that no doubt was released while playing. Sherlock began to exit and as he strode (albeit uneasily as the music had quite knocked the wind out of him) he saw Moriarty smile and nod his head.

* * *

TEXT MESSAGE

TO: JOHN WATSON

FROM: UNKNOWN NUMBER

MESSAGE: Thank you. -SH

\--END MESSAGE--

 


	5. A Scandal in Belfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I was going to finish this over the summer? Ha! Anyway, at least I churned out one more chapter.

* * *

 

_One Year Later_

     John struggled underneath the weight of the massive box while climbing the stairs. He felt his grip was lessening and he grew increasingly worried that he would drop it...which only made his hands sweat more. He swung the box half on his leg, half squished between him and the wall, and turned the key to his apartment. He put the box on the floor and pushed it the rest of the way in. It sat in the middle of his living room. A new stereo. Shiny and new, it could play almost any kind of media...vinyls, CDs, cassettes, and even an iPod if he ever got one. This was the one thing he let himself splurge on. 

     John liked to tell himself that nothing had changed, but he knew he was lying. Sure, the money didn't change him. He bought a new suit, a few new jumpers, and this stereo but everything else was the same. Maybe he bought better food than ramen nowadays. But he supposed the most surprising effect of the concert was that people noticed him. If he was around the music schools or sometimes even just  _on the street_ , someone might say, "Hey! You're the trumpet man! You're great.", shake his hand, and walk off. He supposed it was just because his name was catchy...John Watson is an easier name to remember than Henrik Fordsmithmurman. Someone once even had him sign the CD of the film score recordings he'd done with some of the other ensembles. He'd nearly been speechless and momentarily forgot his name. John couldn't lie, it felt good to be noticed. It felt good to finally be appreciated. It felt good to have perhaps impacted someone's life in some way. 

     That feeling of having gotten the short end of the stick faded, and John was...content. He'd even thought about moving out of his sorta dumpy flat but decided against it. He grabbed a box-knife and cut the tape on the box before opening it up. He had maybe hoped that he'd just see the stereo in all its glory in the box, but, of course, it was packed with styrofoam, plastic, and a large user's manual. He turned away from it for now. He could deal with setting it up later. Although the mechanism was tempting to get started on right away. He decided he wanted some tea so he put the kettle on and surveyed his domain. His life was comfortable. He felt like he was truly at home.

     He took his trumpet from its case. He shined it more often now and he was always mesmerized by how much it shone. It seemed to refract the light around him just  _so_ , so the reflections were beautifully marred. He ran his fingers down the valves and did a silent chromatic scale in his head, when he noticed one of the notes sustaining for longer than he had intended. Oh, the tea was ready.

    John was a simple man and his tea was simple, too. No sugar, a little milk and he was a happy Londoner. The heat of the mug was welcoming and carried nothing like drowsiness but instead a slight buzziness that made him want to  _do_ something. Before he knew it, the tea was gone and he stared at his instrument longingly for a while before getting to it. The scene might even have been comical but sometimes, his trumpet really was his only friend. He ran his fingers down the valves again and then just... _played_.

* * *

    He was calling people to get them interested. He wasn't sure if everyone he called would be first pick but it never hurt to ask. Unless they got royally offended, in which case, it might've hurt to ask. His head was near bursting from organizing this whole she-bang, something that would have been a much easier task if only everyone wasn't so pathetic and imbecilic. He truly only wanted the best of rising talents and listened to several recordings and performances of each entry on the list. Finally, he was ready to make his next call.

 

 _Watson, John_.

* * *

     The stereo was simply majestic. The room felt alive with the bass beneath his toes and the rest of the voices building upon his body, the tenors at his knees and the sopranos skimming his hair. It was Botti's  _Emanuel_  on some CD that he'd gotten while he was on tour with Botti. For some, strange reason, it seemed to be on constant repeat in his mind during the last two weeks. Something about the marriage of trumpet and violin felt so right even though at first thought, it might seem to clash. The music rose to its climax and the moment hung in the air a while as John's heart felt like it might burst. Just as the notes started to come down slowly, his phone lit up.

_BLOCKED NUMBER_

     Ususally, John ignored numbers he didn't recognize, but instinct had him pick up the phone before he realized."Hello?"

     A devious, maybe even slimy, sounding voice answered. "Is this Mr. Watson?"

     "This is he."

     "This is the coordinator of the "Emerging Artiste" Festival. We've found your work astounding and ask if you would think about coming to Belfast this year to take part."

     John gripped the phone tightly briefly. "Oh, absolutely, I'm honored. I'd love to be a part of this." He was excited and truly honored for being considered an Artiste.

    "Fantastic, it's during the next half of the year so we'll be in touch. Thank you." And then the line disconnected.

    John was left holding the phone next to his ear for the next five minutes. Wow, someone considered him "emerging"...someone thought he was going somewhere after this point in his life, a belief that he had begun to doubt himself. He'd heard about this festival before and it was usually incredibly well put-together and got a lot of praise...both for the performers and the sponsors. Suddenly, he was uncontrollably excited and was already thinking about wearing his new suit when the last note of the  _Emanuel_ pierced through his skull and he suddenly shot back to the ground.

     He had something else to work out first.

* * *

     Sherlock had spent the past four hours in a stuffy practice room without reprieve. If he didn't feel obligated to continue, he'd even say he was fatigued. The muscles in his hands were aching but his mind willed them to continue. He pulled a leaf of sheet music from his bag. It was neatly written on with precise style markings. A small etude composition that Sherlock himself had been edging away at. And he began to play.

     It began with a soft and sweet exposition, a flurry of fast notes that reminded him of a hummingbird on the hottest day of summer. Then the song slowed down and panned out, displaying the world around the hummingbird, giving each view its proper and due time. And suddenly, it was like you were hang-gliding over the scene, zooming from the trees to the flowers to the lake and to the cottage. The cottage where Sherlock spent time in his childhood...in his dreams but he was never sure if these were dreams or memories anymore. 

    Just barely after the last note had dissipated, his phone vibrated in his bag. He felt the urge to kick it and ignore it, but he reached in and answered anyway because he was feeling especially amiable. "Holmes."

    "Hello? Sherlock?" He recognized the timbre of his voice immediately. It was John. Sherlock felt a little flutter of pleasure in hearing from him.

    "Yes. Hello John"

    "I'm sorry if I'm intruding I just had your number from that text you sent way back when. I called because I'm actually in need of a violinist."

    Sherlock stood there, slightly confused. Had John just suggested a duet? Joh really wanted to work with the "collaborative train wreck" that is Sherlock Holmes? "What for?"

    "Ah, this might sound a bit silly to you...but it's actually for a festival...a new artists festival of sorts...it's called the 'Emerging Artiste'?" John sounded hopeful, maybe even a little desperate and it was evident that some other violinists had turned him down already. Sherlock was only slightly offended that he wasn't first choice.

    And then the festival sounded oddly familiar...the name was something that he had never associated with but was buzzing around in his ear all the time...oh, yes,of course. "Mycroft."

     "Excuse me?"

     "Ah, I've just realized that my...brother...is the man in charge of the festival. I'm not quite on good terms with him, so I'm very sorry John but I'm afraid I have to decline." Sherlock moved to hang up when--

     "WAIT! Please, please consider this. I really don't want to miss this opportunity to perform and I honestly think it would be...fucking brilliant to work with you." The undertones of desperation were still there but the last part was sincere and it maybe melted Sherlock a little bit.

     Sherlock sighed. "I...I'll see what I can do. I'll call you back soon." Sherlock said the words that were supposed to portray an uncertainty, but it still felt like he was already agreeing.

     He could almost hear John's smile. "Thank you. Thank you so much."


End file.
